I looked at him as he stood taking me in, and in the quizzical, humorous smile hovering about his eyes, in the set of his very imperturbable mouth, in his wholly comfortable attitude before the radiator, I read my answer. It was something that had been struggling for expression at the back of my brain all day. “Well, sir,” I said (and then wished I could have embarked on my explanation as our sailors do with “It’s like this ’ere, sir”), “to all intents and purposes you’ve dropped out of the skies plop into the middle of the Grand Fleet. It’s a fleet that has been 3½ years at war. It belongs to the oldest and most conservative--if not the proudest--navy in the world. It’s got the Armada and the Nile and Copenhagen and Trafalgar and Jutland to its credit, and, I fancy, it takes a largish size in hats on the strength of it. It certainly has a standard by which to judge strangers.” “Sure,” said the Admiral softly, with his eyes on the far-off snowy hills. I took a long breath. I’m not used to making stump speeches to admirals. “Well, from the moment your ships rounded that headland the British Fleet has been sizing you up. Every boat that is manned and leaves your ship, every officer or man who moves about your decks, is being watched and criticised and studied by several thousand pairs of eyes. You live in the limelight.” “Sure,” said the Admiral, so softly that it was hardly more than a gentle expiration between his teeth. He may have been wondering when I was coming to the point. “Well, sir,” I continued, “all that is apt to make a very good man indeed self-conscious. I came over on the look-out for self-consciousness, like a lady visitor looks out for wet paint on board. I’ve been ten hours in your flagship, and I’ve talked to samples of every rank and rating. I’ve only seen one person self-conscious under friendly scrutiny.” “Ah?” said the Admiral. His eyebrows lifted a shade. “I caught sight of myself in a looking-glass,” I explained.... Not that this absence of self-consciousness is the outcome of indifference. The American Squadron is keenly alive to the intent observation it is undergoing. Its method of showing how aware was perhaps the most graceful imaginable. For a few days it visited one of the fleet’s more southerly bases, and the ships’ companies were given leave to visit a great town. Six thousand five hundred men availed themselves of this permission. They were greeted by the inhabitants with an enthusiasm that might well have thrown a staider and older set of men off their balance. The traditional British methods of extending hospitality were thrust upon these youngsters fresh from a long and arduous voyage. It might have resulted in a _tamasha_ that would have made the memory of Mafeking night seem like a temperance revival by comparison. Yet when those six thousand five hundred mortal men returned to their ships and the bonds of discipline--nine only were slightly under the influence of liquor. Nine all told.